starspunobserving the romanticismstarspun by BittersweetObsession
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
all my pick up lines
we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
that two teens at the park
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)
your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.
i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes.
look to the hooded
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
out of our parents' adulterated
lies and the excitement of alcohol.
i settle for a star.
it's almost as luminous
as the after
1945 in sepiaThe boy called “spineless” has a backbone, lost in the rubble1945 in sepia by BittersweetObsession
of Hiroshima, his unfettered hands pulling at maps
and photographs. With worn and radioactive identity, he knows
that the world is a veteran, sick of empathy,
and can look massacre in the eye without blinking.
Hastily the people will cleanse themselves
of alpha particles and corpses they did not touch.
History classrooms will suck the marrow of tragedy, unafflicted,
passing Hiroshima as another word in a textbook.
Still, this rubble-spined boy keeps firm the cast the world removed.
He croons and mumbles on reverence, seeming all too unfelt
by mankind. To the ungrieving populace he writes the postscript of war
on the back of his father’s portrait:
“Does nobody think that maybe, when a tree falls in the forest,
we’re all around to hear it but we just don’t listen?”